Martial Arts Vs Magic - Chapter 122

Chapter 122: Swirling Plots of Royal Problems

Rafin's expression remained carefully neutral as we recounted the day's events around the modest dinner table. Oil lamps cast shadows across his weathered face, hiding whatever thoughts might be flickering beneath the surface.

"An oasis marked by leviathan magic?" He sipped his stew, considering the news. "Every five years some fool claims to have found one. Remember old Hazim? Took twenty men into the Scarlet Dunes. Only his bones returned, picked clean by desert scavengers."

"I've heard similar tales in my travels," I offered, watching Lailah from the corner of my eye. She was quieter than usual, her attention fixed on her bowl, silver eyes downcast. 

Despite her attempts at normalcy, I could sense a heaviness in her movements, a tension in her shoulders that betrayed her calm facade.

“So you agree?” he asked.

"I heard this time’s different, old man," I insisted. "The Baron himself is organizing expeditions. Rumors that the Gold Dragon Clan have shown interest.”

"The Baron himself is organizing expeditions? All the more reason to stay away," Rafin countered. "Where dragons and warlords circle, common folk find only grief.”

I set down my spoon, having made my decision hours ago. "Fair point, but… I've got no choice. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. This oasis... if there's even a chance it exists, I must find it."

Rafin nodded, unsurprised. "Your body’s barely healed."

"I've traveled in worse condition," I said with a half-smile. "I appreciate all you've done for me, but I've imposed long enough."

I caught the nearly imperceptible relief in Rafin's eyes. Of course—while he appreciated my help against the mobs earlier, I was an unknown, someone with tons of enemies, potential danger to his household. 

My swift departure would ease at least one of his many burdens.

"You… can't leave yet," Lailah spoke suddenly, her voice a bit too firm. "Your injuries—you still struggle to lift anything heavier than that spoon."

"No? I’m eating just fine," I assured her. "I’ll manage. Always have."

"The deep desert doesn't forgive weakness," she pressed, silver eyes finally meeting mine. "You need at least another week of recovery, maybe more."

I kept my expression neutral, though her concern warmed something long cold within me. "Some things can't wait, Lailah. Especially for healing since this might be the only chance for me to heal myself."

A heavy silence fell across the table. 

Lailah wanted to say something, but her lips didn’t find those words. She just lowered her gaze. Rafin studied his daughter, something unreadable passing between them.

"Do you want to go too, Lailah?" he asked quietly.

The question seemed to physically startle her. The wooden spoon clattered against her bowl as she stared at her father, mouth working silently before words tumbled out.

"I—what? No! Why would I... leave you here alone? The fields need tending, and the roof still needs patching, and—"

Rafin's soft laughter cut through her stammering. "It’s alright. Your mother... she always had that same adventurous spirit burning behind her eyes. She only settled down for me." His voice grew distant, touched with memory. "She told me once, made me promise actually, to let you out into the wild when the time came. 'Don't clip her wings for comfort's sake,' she said." He smiled, though sadness lingered at the edges. 

“....”

"So if you want to go out this once, you can. Who knows? Maybe you'll even find a husband outside this dustbowl."

"Father!" Lailah's cheeks flushed crimson, her embarrassment momentarily eclipsing whatever had been weighing on her.

I observed Rafin thoughtfully. This sudden generosity felt calculated—not malicious, but purposeful. He'd seen the same thing I had, and he’d been here for longer. The Baron's growing interest in Lailah, the whispers from town, the danger circling closer after today's events, and everything else. 

A father sending his daughter away with a stranger wasn't desperation; it was strategy.

"It would be extremely dangerous," I said, addressing Rafin directly. "Especially since I don't plan to register with the city as the Baron demands. My face might cause problems. After today, Lailah's would too."

"You're strong," Rafin stated simply, as though it were an established fact. "Aside from defeating those thugs the other day, I've watched you train at dawn when you think no one's awake. You move like someone who's seen battle. Ton of it."

I thinned my lips, uncomfortable with his perception. He couldn’t have watched if I had the Demonic Sphere still. "...Strength isn't always enough in the deep desert."

"Then two have a better chance than one," he countered.

Lailah sat frozen, caught between visible excitement and uncertainty, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. "But who would take care of you? Your back pains in the winter, and—"

"I managed alone before you were born, before I met your mother," Rafin said gently. "I can manage a few weeks now, and it’s not winter yet."

"The waters of this oasis, if they exist," I said carefully, "are said to sell for a large price, as well as having unusual properties. Healing capabilities beyond normal medicine." I flexed my damaged arm, the movement still stiff and limited. "If true, we could bring back something valuable enough to change your circumstances."

Rafin nodded slowly. "Just... come back." His eyes fixed on Lailah. "Both of you."

I watched understanding dawn in Lailah's expression—the realization that her father was creating an escape route, a chance for her to vanish from the Baron's attention until newer gossip replaced today's incident.

"I… well, fine," she said finally, resolution strengthening her voice. "We'll need to prepare properly tonight, then. Desert journeys require planning."

Rafin smiled, relief evident in the easing of his shoulders. "It sure does."

…..

Later, as the lamps dimmed and the house settled into night sounds, I sat outside beneath the vast canopy of stars, contemplating the journey ahead. The door creaked behind me, and Lailah's soft footsteps approached.

"You know why he's sending me with you," she said, not a question.

"Yes."

"I'm not afraid of the Baron."

I glanced up at her silhouette against the starlight. "Perhaps you should be."

She sank down beside me, drawing her knees to her chest. "Are you really going to the oasis for healing?"

"Among other reasons," I answered truthfully. “I’d like to meet the Gold Dragons, if possible. And no, it’s not because I’m one of them. I just have a… friend there.”

Lailah laughed but it was a short one. Her expression sombered. 

"My mother..." she began, then paused, gathering her thoughts. "She was more than just a farmer's wife. She charted parts of the deep desert before meeting my father. The maps in our home, she drew those."

This revelation shifted my understanding of the quiet household. "Your father never mentioned that."

"It pains him to speak of her." Lailah's finger traced patterns in the sand beside her. "She told me stories of waters blessed by dragons, places where reality itself bends. Most thought her tales were fancy, but she'd seen things..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Things that made her both respected and feared."

The pieces aligned with new clarity. 

Lailah's affinity for the wind, her mother's reputation, the Baron's interest—it wasn't just about a pretty face from a remote farm.

"Then we have a better chance than most," I said, "with her daughter as my guide."

Lailah's smile was barely visible in the darkness. Now that I’d reassured her, now that she’d made her choice, I could see the glitter of excitement in her eyes. "Stop sitting around, we need to prepare," she repeated. "Then we chase mirages together."

As she retreated inside, I remained beneath the desert stars, contemplating how easily plans change, how a simple search for healing waters had become something more complex. I was still unsure about entangling this innocent girl into my problems…

But taking her away would be the safer choice. As she saved my life, that was the least I could do for her. Yet, it did worry me a little. 

The desert gives nothing freely, Rafin had said.

I wondered what price it would demand from us.

****

I fell into a restless half-slumber after we finished packing, my mind refusing to surrender fully to darkness. 

The night held too many whispers, too many paths diverging from this crossroads. After an hour of chasing sleep through the labyrinths of my thoughts, I abandoned the effort entirely.

The hut felt suffocating despite its modest size. I stepped outside, hoping the desert night might clear my head, and found Rafin perched on a flat rock, silhouetted against a sky drowning in stars.

"You should rest," he said without turning. "The desert doesn't forgive the unprepared or the unrested."

"Sleep rarely heeds necessity," I replied, settling beside him on the weathered stone. "It comes when it wishes, like rain in these parts."

Rafin chuckled, the sound as dry as the land around us. "A philosopher disguised as a warrior. Or perhaps it's the other way around."

Above us, the cosmos spilled across the heavens—not the familiar constellations of Waybound or Romer, but the untamed wilderness of the deep desert sky. Stars clustered differently here, ancient patterns telling different stories.

"My wife used to say the stars remember what men forget," Rafin murmured, following my gaze. "Worlds burn and die, empires crumble, and still they watch, unmoved. Apparently the world ended four times before, can you believe that?"

…His wife knew something like that? It made me wonder. It was a true fact, I first heard it from Solara, and later Lilian confirmed further saying her grandmother was from the first world.

"I heard the same, maybe it’s true. The indifference of eternity," I offered. "A comfort or a terror, depending on your perspective."

He nodded, fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. "You know what's interesting about the desert? Nothing is exactly as it appears. The dune that seems solid shifts beneath your feet. The mirage that appears false sometimes leads to real water."

I recognized the circling approach of a man preparing to reveal something difficult. "What else appears one way but exists as another?"

"My daughter," he said simply, voice so quiet it almost dissolved into the night. "She is more than she seems. More than even she realizes."

My instincts sharpened. "I've noticed."

Rafin's weathered face turned toward me, moonlight catching in the deep creases around his eyes. "Her mother wasn't from... around here." He gestured vaguely upward. "She was a jinn—a spirit of wind and whispers. Some called them demons, though they were nothing of the sort. Just... different. Ancient."

…Devils.

My eyes trembled at his words.

The desert air seemed to still around us, as if the night itself were listening. 

Devils were a kind of Demon, but a specific species. All Devils were Demons, but not all Demons were Devils. They were the pinnacle of demonhood, and their 72 leaders were considered to be entities on par with Divinity.

How could there have been a Devil here? The devil-kind along with their rulers, the 72 Devil Pillars, used to roam this earth thousands of years ago. Until they were banished into the Underworld, which they now ruled. The Underworld was different from Hell, it was a realm of its own. All devils were forced to remain there, how could one come to the mortal plane?

"When we fell in love, her kind considered it an abomination. While mine thought me bewitched. Both were wrong." His voice cracked slightly. "I escaped my hometown to keep ourselves safe, and settled in the Kiss. We had nineteen beautiful years before the Baron’s witch-hunters found her. I… we’d saved the Baron, like how I saved you, from the desert. He was respectful at first, we thought he was a good man, but… he turned out to have a deep hatred for demons. So when he realized my wife wasn’t human, although unsure what she was exactly, he ruined our lives."

"....”

What a man Rafin was, to continue saving others despite losing his wife from the same incident before. It was rare, such people.

“Thankfully people thought she was just a witch, so they didn’t harm Lailah. If they knew Lailah was half her mother…” he trailed off.

“Fair. Lailah inherited her mother's nature fully?"

"It’s blood, after all," Rafin confirmed. "The wind obeys her, though she barely understands how to command it. Her mother died before teaching her properly."

"The deaths of those men the other night," I ventured.

"She didn't mean to kill them. Just frighten them." Sadness weighed his words. "Her power grows stronger as she gets older, but her control doesn't always keep pace. The desert spirits are drawn to her blood. They protect her, but sometimes too... enthusiastically."

I considered my response carefully. "The world fears what it doesn't understand."

"And destroys what it fears," Rafin finished bitterly. "That's why the Baron hunts her. Not just for her beauty, but for what flows in her veins. Power that could be harnessed, studied. Or extinguished."

Something ancient and weary passed across his face. "I'm not sending her with you just to protect her from the Baron's men. I'm sending her away before she becomes what they fear—a weapon, or a casualty. So… can I trust you?”

He already did trust me, for he told me all his secrets.

His honesty deserved honesty in return. 

I raised my hand, palm upward. With concentration, I summoned a faint crimson spark, the merest echo of my former power, but enough to cast Rafin's startled face in haunted red light. Demonic Qi painted the area red.

"I too," I said, "am something similar. Don't worry, I'll keep her safe."

Rafin sat straighter, eyes fixed on the dancing Demonic Qi. Not fear but recognition.

"The universe has a terrible sense of humor. I save a stranger from the desert, only to discover he's as far from ordinary as my daughter," he whispered.

In the silence that followed, the desert whispered secrets older than both our kinds.

****

The golden tower rotated slowly, the mechanisms beneath the floor rumbling with ancient magic. 

Baron Sahlizar hated that sound in the beginning, but he was used to it by now.

He ran a scaled finger along the edge of his gilded desk, skin catching on the ridges of Erebian craftsmanship. The finest piece in his collection—acquired from a caravan that had failed to pay proper "passage fees" through his territory.

He entered his private chambers, tongue flicking instinctively to taste the air. The scent of Erebian spices, overpowering royal perfume, and cold ambition assaulted his senses immediately. He knew who it came from.

Prince Valerius of the Erebian Empire stood by the grand window, back turned with calculated disregard.

The Prince's jeweled fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the glass as his orange eyes gazed down at Scorpion's Kiss sprawling beneath the tower. 

"Fascinating contraption, this rotating eyesore," the Prince remarked without turning. "I wonder what the creator of this was thinking, hundreds of years ago. Such effort for what? To remind his subjects they're watched from all angles? Then again, a scavenger like you wouldn’t know."

Sahlizar sighed out his irritation. 

The Prince had arrived at the Kiss without warning, with just enough guards to make a point but not enough to suggest invasion. The delicate balance of power between them was clear—Sahlizar might be 7th Ascension, but Empire royalty commanded forces that could turn Scorpion's Kiss to glass.

"Your Highness honors my humble home." Sahlizar's tongue flicked between words, betraying his agitation. "Had I known you were coming—"

"You'd have prepared a proper welcome?" Valerius turned, his perfect features arranged in practiced disinterest. "Spare me the performance, Warlord. Or is it 'Baron' now? The Empire's titles sit as awkwardly on you as that Erebian silk."

Sahlizar's scales rippled along his neck, darkening with suppressed rage. "The Emperor himself granted me this title, Your Highness."

"A convenient fiction to avoid the expense of removing you." The Prince waved dismissively. "But I didn't cross the Scalding Plains to discuss your... legitimacy."

"Then why have you come to Scorpion's Kiss, Prince Valerius?" Sahlizar kept his voice level, though a vein pulsed visibly at his temple.

"The Leviathan-Marked Oasis." Valerius spoke the words like a sentence of execution. "You've found one, and you're organizing expeditions."

So that's it. Sahlizar's mind raced. News had traveled impossibly fast—he'd only made the public announcement yesterday.

"Indeed. We're registering qualified adventurers starting tomorrow. The finder's tax will ensure proper compensation for the city's—"

"Finder's tax?" The Prince laughed, a sharp sound devoid of humor. "Incredible. You parade this discovery through your miserable little bazaar like a common spectacle? Have you any concept of what you've found?"

Sahlizar's claws dug into the wood of his desk. "I understand perfectly. These waters command enormous value. The Gold Dragon Clan has already expressed interest—"

"And now I express mine." Valerius cut through his words like a blade. "I require these waters. All of them. For myself alone."

The Baron's forked tongue darted between his lips. "May I ask why this particular oasis interests Your Highness so deeply?"

Valerius turned back to the window, his reflection in the glass showing a momentary flicker of something almost human—worry, perhaps, or desperation.

"Let's call it a matter of succession, shall we?" His voice lost its sharp edge, and Sahlizar had a feeling there was more to it than just that. Does he want to heal someone with it? He wondered while the Prince continued. "My elder brother Domitian grows stronger by the day. His accomplishments at the Royal Academy of Ereb outshine the rest of my siblings. The court whispers that I lack... distinction."

Sahlizar studied the Prince's reflection. So this was about power, about securing position in the endless dance of Erebian succession. As the 7th Prince, it was understandable why he was trying so hard.

"But there are other paths to greatness," Valerius continued. "Ancient texts speak of leviathan waters granting enhancements beyond normal boundaries. With proper preparation, a sip could elevate me beyond my Ascension limits."

"Such waters are difficult to harvest, Your Highness. The deep desert—"

"Is dangerous, yes." Valerius turned, eyes cold. "I've read the fanciful travel journals. Sand dragons, elemental storms, temporal distortions. And, of course… those filthy Gold Dragon. Your concern for my welfare is touching, but unnecessary."

Sahlizar straightened, tail shifting beneath his robes. The Prince’s eyes caught that, and a look of disdain showed. Sahlizar clenched his jaws. 

He didn’t like the instinctual movements that his half-lizardfolk blood brought out sometimes, that was true, but it angered him to be looked at that way. 

He hid it, adding, "I've already set plans in motion. My best men will—"

"Your men?" Valerius's laughter cut like glass. "Desert rats and city thugs? For something that could decide the fate of my claim to the throne?" He moved closer, dropping his voice to a contemptuous whisper. "I think not."

"They're quite capable—"

"Are they? I heard interesting rumors upon my arrival." Valerius circled the desk like a predator. "Something about your enforcer—Malek, was it?—and his men being dismantled by a one-armed cripple and some farmer's daughter. The witch-girl, Lailah, I believe?" The Prince's smile was a cruel slash across perfect features. "Your men can't even maintain order in your own territory, yet you presume them to handle matters of imperial significance?"

Sahlizar's scales darkened further, nearly black with rage. How had the Prince learned of that embarrassment so quickly?

"A minor incident," he hissed. "Already being addressed."

"I'm sure." Valerius's tone dismissed the subject entirely. "Now, to business. You will cancel the public expedition, make it private, and personally lead a group to the oasis. You will secure its waters. You will deliver them to me, and only me."

The Baron's tail twitched violently beneath his robes. "Your Highness, my responsibilities to Scorpion's Kiss—"

"Are secondary to your responsibility to the Empire." Valerius's eyes hardened. "Or have you forgotten who allows you to play at nobility in this wasteland? Imagine your benefits if you help me claim the throne? You’ll have more than this dry city under your feet."

Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

"...When would Your Highness require this expedition to depart?" Sahlizar finally asked, surrender bitter on his tongue.

"Yesterday." The Prince moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "Ensure its waters reach my hands, Baron, and only my hands. Failure is not an option I, or the Empire, will tolerate." His voice softened to something almost pleasant. "Succeed, however, and my gratitude will be... substantial."

"And the Gold Dragon Clan's interest?" Sahlizar ventured.

Valerius's smile was a dangerous thing. "They collect pretty trinkets. I build empires. Remember the difference. They’re above us, we too have an Arcane Crown."

After the Prince departed, Sahlizar remained motionless, staring at the door. Then, with a roar that shook the rotating walls, he swept everything from his desk, treasures and artifacts crashing to the floor.

"A cripple and a witch-girl," he snarled to himself, scales fully black with fury. "Malek's humiliation brings royal vultures to my door."

He stalked to the window, watching the city below as his tower continued its relentless rotation.

"First the oasis," he muttered, "then I'll find this one-armed traveler and the witch."

His reflection smiled back at him, revealing rows of sharpened teeth. The desert had taught him patience. The desert had taught him how to hunt.

And in the desert, nothing survived for long against Sahlizar.